


In Shambles

by eliospiano



Category: Unspecified Fandom
Genre: Armies blocking things out, Eventual Romance, Longing, M/M, Timmy’s impulsive, dealing with depression, idk i’ll add more later, lots of heartache, psychiatrist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-26 08:46:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14398485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eliospiano/pseuds/eliospiano
Summary: 6 months into the future Armie sees a psychiatrist and Timmy doesn’t know how to handle his pain....





	In Shambles

Armie, late 2018

 

The sweater cloaking my body is itchy in the neckline, and it’s ironic to me how even the clothes she picks out for me are as agitating as she is.

_“You need this, Armie”, my wife grumbled as she shoved me out the door this morning with a jacket and a piece of paper with an address on it. “Just try, okay? For me? Maybe it’ll help”, she’d tried to lighten her ‘you’re going crazy’ speech from only minutes ago._

_“I love you”, she called as I shut the door a bit abruptly to my truck. What the fuck has she gotten me into?_

Now, as I sit in the waiting room of a small psychiatrist office, I feel like maybe I am just a little nuts. “Armand Hammer”, the bored sounding nurse calls from the doorway of the back rooms.

I’m the only person there, but she still feels the need to say my whole name as if another Armand was sitting to my left or my right waiting to see the same doctor. The older woman checks my vitals, asks me if I’m suicidal, and upon a joking “sometimes”, and a chuckle from me, lowers her glasses.

“Mr. Hammer, we don’t joke about suicide here”, the woman informs me. “Of course not, my apologies”, I feel like an ass now.

This is when the sweater gets itchier.

The room she takes me in is grey, with paintings on one wall. A couch and two chairs are the only furniture with the exception of a small end table with a deck of cards and a box of tissues lain askew.

“The doctor will be in shortly”, she says and shuts the door behind her, leaving me in utter silence. I scan the room, and let out a breath I hadn’t meant to be holding. I pick the couch because it’s easier to see the paintings from that seat.

It’s not but maybe 3 minutes before the doctor walks in but the deafening silence makes it feel much longer.

“Armand”, the doctor says like a teacher would say to a former student whom they’ve missed.

“Armie, please”, I try to be as polite as I can.

“Of course, well Armie my name is Dr. Jeen, why don’t you have a seat”, she gestures to where I had just gotten up from. I do as she says and take in her appearance.

She’s about my age, 5’ 6” if I had to guess, with a small frame and dark hair. Her green dress and low heels scream “professionalism”, as does her personality.

“Alright Armie, judging by your paperwork you’ve never seen a psychiatrist before, is that correct?”

I nod.

“Good. Today we’re just gonna talk a little about you and why you’re here. Can you tell me why you came to see me today?”, she puts down my paperwork on the side table and looks at me, awaiting a response.

I take a deep breath. Don’t sound like a dick, I tell myself.

“My wife made the appointment. I’m just here because she didn’t give me a choice”, I pull at my neckline.

“I see. You two having any problems?”

“You could say we’re not exactly the poster cover of a perfect couple at the moment.”

“Have you considered couples counseling?”

“I’d rather not”, I reply shortly.

“Okay”, she leans back in her chair.

“Why don’t we start somewhere else. How are you feeling today?”, my brain spits out words for me: empty, unfulfilled, angry, hopeless.

“Fine, I guess”, I play with a loose sting on the couch cushion.

“Is there anything troubling you today?”

“No”, my answer is defensive, and she most definitely can read my body language well enough to know that’s not true.

“Armie” she sighs ever so slightly, a fault in her perfect aura, “Your wife paid for 6 sessions, so if you don’t want to talk to me that’s fine, but it’ll be 6 long hours of you and I sitting in silence waiting for the minutes to tick by. Frankly, I’d rather spend an afternoon in hell. Anything we talk about stays in this room, within these walls”, she gestures around us with open arms,

“So try to think of this as a...safe spot, in a way. Like this is the one place you can let everything go.” Her offer is intriguing, but as much as I’d like to spill all of my inner issues to this random woman who promises solace, I remain quiet.

“Suit yourself”, she shakes her head. We sit then. For a while. I consider telling her about feeling unfulfilled, but stop myself because it would mean having to bring _him_ up.

And I couldn’t do that right now without freaking out.

So, I sit with my hands in my lap and try to keep my eyes down.

 

 

Timmy, late 2018

 

I’ve firmly decided that the club around the corner from my new apartment is my favorite place to be. After a shitty audition today and even shittier thoughts in my head, I head there for a drink.

The thing is, i’m not sure when I got to be like this. When I picture myself, I think about maybe 6 months ago, how happy and full of fucking life I was, and I wonder where the hell that boy ran off to.

When did I become the one who drinks to forget things, who smokes because it takes an edge off of my anxiety filled chest. I should be happy; my career is thriving.

But I feel like I could be in a crowded room full of people who know me, and no one would really _know_ me.

After 2 drinks, I notice a short blonde with a lust-filled look on her face watching me from the dance floor. I smile at her because it’d be awkward not to, and she slowly moves her hips as she makes her way to me.

“Hi”, she puts both hands on my knees, and I can’t help but think she wastes no time. Another thing to take the pain out of my chest? Yes please, I think as I take her hand and lead her to the bathroom.

I fuck her hard, pounding in to her over and over again while she tries not to scream. I hate myself when I get home and light another cigarette, because I realize the only way I could finish with her was by picturing _him_.

I pick up my phone, think about how I need a new case, and let the thought slip from my mind because I’ll do it eventually.

I go through my contacts, knowing his will be one of the first. When my finger glides over it I almost hit the call button, a sudden urge to just hear him, even if not his voice, just his breathing. Just to be in his presence for a moment.

Out of frustration I chuck the phone across the room and an animalistic sound escapes my throat like it’s been trapped there for years. I grab my grey sweater from the couch before heading out the door again, deciding maybe I need another drink.


End file.
